She doesn’t tell me I’m going too. But she also doesn’t say I’mnot.
I know I should stay behind, let myself cool off, not spend every waking moment with Morgan.
Instead, I dig out my swim trunks and try not to think too much about Morgan’s bikini. I’m hoping it’s something kind ofsporty and serious, a subversion of the expectation for females to wear the most revealing swimsuit possible.
It turns out the rooftop pool is right above our suite, and we have a private staircase up to it. Following Morgan puts her hips at the level of my eyes, and the chiffon of her cover-up is just translucent enough for me to trace the black string of her thong bikini.
I gulp. I should have known absolutely nothing in Morgan’s life would be modest.
The rooftop is just as extravagant as everything else. A turquoise glass mosaic lines the pool from the murmuring waterfall to the infinity edge that spills out over the city. Sunbathing chairs ring the pool, and just behind them are cabana beds, with soft white curtains flowing in the wind. Lush palms cast shade from their concrete planters, each sculpted to follow the organic flow of the space.
Our private entrance has its own set of showers, and there’s another structure on the other side that must be where the elevator comes up.
“Oh, this isamazing,” I breathe. We’re on a rooftop in the city, but I feel like I’m in a tropical resort.
“It’s alright,” Morgan says.
I step towards the pool, realize I haven’t changed yet, then double back to the private shower area.
When I emerge, Morgan’s still standing nearby, but her cover-up is gone. Three little triangles valiantly strain to cover her areolas and the most intimate area between her legs. She must wax. Or have gotten laser hair removal. Fuck, why am I thinking about her pus—
“No,” she says flatly. “You’re not wearing that.” It’s not an exclamation—it’s a command. Her eyes are on my swim trunks. At least that means she probably missed the stupid look on my face.
The trunks are baggy and long—a size too big, snagged from the clearance rack because I liked the tropical pattern. I have them cinched tight with the drawstring.
I’m pretty sure they don’t lookthatbad. They’re just swim trunks. Very regular swim trunks.
Morgan beckons over a young woman with a high honey-colored ponytail and a hotel uniform and rattles off a series of instructions. The woman nods and heads for the elevator.
I try to sneak towards the pool.
“Wait,” Morgan commands.
Sensations cascade through my body. First, the subconscious straightening of my spine. Her words echo, but… distantly. The omega wants to obey, but I don’thaveto.
I do anyway.
“Why?” I say.
“I’m fixing… this.” She waves a hand at my swim trunks.
“You didn’t seem to have a problem embarrassing me in front of a bunch of other rich people at the golf course,” I snap back.
“Jamie.” Her tone cuts to my core, bearing an edge of impatience. “You didn’t lookaccidentalat the golf course.” Her expression is almost pained.
I sort through what she could possibly mean—if I didn’t lookaccidental,then what would ‘on purpose’ be? Wait, does she mean I looked…good? My stomach flips. I have no idea what to do with the complement. If that’s even what she meant.
“Where did you even get that thing, J Crew?” she asks, derisive, as if J Crew is the worst possible place to shop she can imagine, and not the nicest store in the mall I went to as a kid.
“No, Target.”
“Targetsellsswimsuits?”
I’m feeling feisty and too rattled to filter myself, so I say, “You’rereallyout of touch.”
Morgan scoffs—I think I actually hit a nerve. “I amnot.”
“What do you mean, ‘Target sells swimsuits’? Target is like,theplace to get a swimsuit if you’re, I don’t know, a normal person. Solid size range, trendy colors and styles, fair quality, affordable prices.”
